


Confirmation

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brief Mention of Blood, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, Soulmate marks, inspired by one of my favorite Bible verses, just love, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 01:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: When a strange mark shows up on Aziraphale's palm, the angel takes it as a great gift from an even greater source. But Crowley may not see it the same way ...





	Confirmation

When Aziraphale first sees it, he thinks it’s a smudge.

He’s been filing taxes, filling out paperwork, and inventorying books all day. Those are all tasks he can miracle, of course, but he doesn’t need to draw attention to himself over frivolous things. Besides, there’s something relaxing, and oddly satisfying, about tackling the minutiae of daily life by hand the way mortals do – no magic involved.

It catches his eye once, maybe twice, but he thinks nothing of it, wiping his hands with a handkerchief and going back about his business, periodically glancing at the clock to read the time.

Nearly five in the afternoon.

His demon should be by soon.

Giddy as a newlywed, he scampers to get ready for Crowley’s arrival.

He shelves the rest of the books, tidies up the papers, and with a flourish of his hand, freshens himself up. He steals a second to examines his hands, checking to see how much damage stacking his latest acquisitions have done to his nails, when it finally hits him that the mark on his hand – dark black with a strange gold shimmer, dead center of his right palm – isn’t just a smudge.

It’s a _name_.

_Anthony J Crowley._

And Aziraphale hasn’t a clue how it got there.

At first he thinks it must be a trick by the demon himself – some new dramatic way of announcing his arrival, which should be (Aziraphale checks the clock again) within the next twenty minutes. Aziraphale puts his left hand over it, assessing it for traces of demonic power, but there isn’t any - no Evil energy within it whatsoever.

What Aziraphale feels in the letters imprinted on his skin is love.

Only love.

And suddenly, Aziraphale realizes he knows this.

Isaiah 49:15 – 16 _I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me._

Love has been used to write Crowley’s name upon his hand.

Not his angel name. Not his demon name.

But the name Crowley chose.

Aziraphale’s heart swells. He takes it as a sign. No matter what has happened before or since, what Aziraphale and Crowley have together is not a mistake. It’s not sacrilege.

It’s not wrong.

And though he doesn’t claim to know God’s plan, maybe, just maybe, their union such as it is, has been acknowledged by God.

The sense of relief that fills Aziraphale creates a blinding light around him of pure joy.

His first instinct is to ambush Crowley the second he walks in and show him, but this name on his hand has more implications than just the love he and Crowley share. It means that God has not forgotten him, and that might not be of any comfort to Crowley.

Crowley doesn’t want to be a demon. There are aspects of it that appeal to him, namely in the power and immortality departments. But he doesn’t want to be an angel, either. If he could find a middle ground where both sides left him alone indefinitely, he’d choose that.

But _this_ \- this could mean something huge in the future that he may not appreciate. If nothing else, it takes his entire past, the honor he once held and the pain of being cast out, and shoves it in his face. Being around Aziraphale probably already reminds him of everything he’s lost.

This might end up like lemon juice in an open wound, one that refuses to heal.

Crowley doesn’t need God’s acceptance. He’s said as much a hundred times. But not until now did it dawn on Aziraphale that he may not _want_ it, even if it’s offered to him freely.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to lose Crowley because of this. He can’t lose him now. Not after 6000 years!

He has two choices – none of them ideal: lose Crowley or dishonor God.

He chooses the latter. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before (according to Gabriel). Why should today be any different?

So Aziraphale hides the name.

He starts with simple logic and scrubs his hands with the strongest soap he has, but that doesn’t help at all. It actually makes things worse. With his hands so clean they’re nearly white, the black mark on his palm becomes a beacon, so crystal clear he can read it in the reflection of his shop window from ten feet away!

He lengthens his shirt sleeves so that the cuffs fall over his hands, but no matter how many times he miracles them, they seem to ride up just enough to uncover his palms. 

He starts wearing gloves - leather ones he’s owned since the early 19th century. They’re conspicuous as heck, and earn him some weird looks from customers and Crowley alike, but they do they trick … for about a week. By the following Friday, the palm has worn through, but only on the one hand.

The hand with the name written on it.

The name prevails, and he begins to realize, it _wants_ to be seen.

So he resigns himself to telling Crowley, explain how this happened and what it could mean. He wants to have it planned out, do it right, reassure him in every way possible.

But for the name on his palm, he’s taking too long.

It wants to be known, and it goes about it violently.

And with Crowley’s help.

But to be fair to the powers above, Aziraphale asks for it.

“Crowley, dear, can you help me open these boxes?” Aziraphale groans when his gloved fingers fumble the box cutter for the fifth time. “I can’t seem to … urgh … get a proper grip on this blasted thing!”

“Why don’t you miracle them open?” Crowley asks, busy reorganizing Aziraphale’s books to his own liking. “Or take off those stupid gloves you’ve been wearing non-stop? You know, for someone who pampers their hands as much as you do, those musty old things can’t be good for your skin.”

“I have … ngh … my reasons.” Aziraphale sighs. “Please? Then after this, we can take a break. Go to lunch. My treat.”

“Fine. But I’m picking the restaurant,” Crowley says, popping the box cutter off the ground with the toe of his shoe and catching it without even looking. “Someplace with a no glove policy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale bends at the waist to hold the bulging, uneven box steady for Crowley to make a clean cut without slicing through the contents inside. “I don’t think such a place exists.”

“I could always miracle them off you,” Crowley says sternly. “I don’t like that you’re keeping things from me.”

“I’m not keeping _anything_ from you,” Aziraphale lies … badly. And he knows it. “Besides, you wouldn’t do that because you’re not that cruel.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crowley mumbles, sticking the tip of the box cutter into the five inches of sloppily applied tape. “On the count of three, all right?”

“All right.”

“One … two …”

But Crowley doesn’t make it to three. The blade flies through the tape, slicing through as if of its own free will, straight to the other side … and through the palm of Aziraphale’s gloved hand.

“Shit shit shit!” Crowley drops the box cutter and reaches for Aziraphale’s wrist, but Aziraphale pulls it away.

“It’s okay,” he says, sucking in a breath. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Scratch my _ass_! I’m sorry for this, but …” Crowley snaps his fingers and the gloves disappear.

Aziraphale gasps. “Crowley!”

“Don’t _Crowley_ me! You’ve been acting downright bizarre this past week, so excuse me for wanting to get to the bottom of what’s going on with you! I happen to care about you, you idiot!”

“I appreciate that,” Aziraphale says, dodging and weaving through the crowded space to avoid Crowley’s eyes. “I really do! But I have this handled. I promise!”

“It’s not about you having it handled, it’s about you keeping secrets! Secrets I suspect may be dangerous if you’re this eager not to tell me!”

Aziraphale searches his shop, trying to find a way to clean up the mess, seal the wound, and hide it from view in one fell swoop without Crowley seeing. When he comes up with a plan, it’s a second too late. Crowley predicted Aziraphale’s next move, guarding the door to the lavatory before Aziraphale even thinks to go there. Aziraphale spots a possible solution – another set of gloves lying on his desk. It’ll cost him a valuable second to yank them on, but after he does, he may be able to bless them so that Crowley can’t miracle them away, not using demonic magic.

It’s a little underhanded, but so was miracling away his gloves in the first place.

Desperate to be done with this, Aziraphale swipes his uninjured hand over the wound to clear away the blood, but when he reaches for the gloves, his hand turns and the name shines, even with his fingers curled over it. No miracle can cloak it, and he’s not fast enough to hide it. Crowley launches at him, reaching him in three strides of his long legs. He grabs Aziraphale’s wrist before Aziraphale can squirrel it out of sight, and just like that, the name gets its wish.

Crowley sees it.

Crowley knows.

“What … what is this?” he asks, raising the angel’s hand to his eyes and examining the mark from all angles. He runs his thumb over it, checking to see if it’s a human made tattoo or something more, thoroughly baffled by its presence.

“I … I didn’t do this,” Aziraphale says, not knowing before he does how insulting it will sound falling from his trembling lips. “I mean … it just showed up one day, and I …”

“This is what you’ve been hiding?” Crowley shakes his head, his voice sullen, laced with disappointment. “Why didn’t you show me this sooner?”

“I wanted to but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to hurt you. Or make you angry. But it’s a good thing, Crowley! It’s a really good thing … I assume.”

Crowley raises a fiery brow at him. “You don’t know?”

“I know scripture. I can guess what it means, but I’m not entirely sure I’m right.”

“So, how do you know it’s good?”

“Because I feel it in my heart,” Aziraphale says, his words rising up to reach Crowley’s ears with his eyes following, watching his skeptical demon soften. “And my heart hasn’t led me astray yet. This mark – it’s full of love, nothing else. Just love.”

Crowley runs his fingers over it to see if it will shift, or perhaps burn him. “I don’t want to assume, either,” he says, covering the mark with his hand, holding it gently against his palm, trying to feel it against his skin, “but I think it means I can do this …” His free hand he puts to Aziraphale’s cheek, running his thumb along his cheekbone. Aziraphale watches Crowley move towards him with curiosity and awe, relishing the change in his expression, how his face seems to go from stark angles to subtle planes as he gets closer.

When their lips touch, that light of joy that’s been simmering beneath Aziraphale’s skin with the arrival of that name shines so brightly, Crowley has to shut his eyes. He breathes in deep, breathes Aziraphale in as he pulls him closer. Heat surrounds them, starting at the point where there palms touch, joining at the place where their lips meet, weaving in and out of them, then in to one another, like a fine golden thread sewing them together. It flows up every one of Aziraphale’s limbs and settles in his heart, filling him with a sensation of peace and happiness so sweet it’s almost too overwhelming to bear. He hears Crowley gasp, hears him hold his breath, then feels him jerk away, as if something just occurred to him that he needs to share before he forgets.

But when Aziraphale looks at him again, he’s stunned speechless, his usual mask of cynicism transformed to something a little more … dare he say … _angelic_.

“Are you okay?”

“I …” Crowley swallows “… yes?”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” Crowley flexes the hand pressed against his angel’s palm. He turns it over, expectantly, splaying his fingers wide for Aziraphale to see. A mark blossoms there, too, the script flowing before their eyes as if written by an invisible pen, the ink white and silver instead of black and gold. And it reads:

_Aziraphale_


End file.
